


A Letter to You

by prioriteas



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Inspired by an Instagram post, Post-Book 9: Sent i november | Moominvalley in November, keep in mind i haven't read it, the boys(tm) are kinda bummed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prioriteas/pseuds/prioriteas
Summary: Snufkin leaves the valley for the winter, and the Moomins still haven't returned. He leaves a letter for them, not realizing that it won't ever be read. Miles and miles away, Moomin watches the treeline in hopes that his dear friend will someday find him.Taking place during the aftermath of 'November in Moominvalley.'( Inspired by Instagram user @/snufmi.n )
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	1. A Winter's Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of winter, and some thoughts about a song.

Snufkin on top of a small mound of snow by the letterbox, right outside the house, and he played the last five notes of his song. The sound was sudden, and a rabbit near the bridge startled and raced away into the woods, snow flying up from under its feet. He didn't pay it any mind, or even really notice it, because the relief that accompanied the music rushed over him quickly, and he forgot the rest of the world. The song was finished, and on the first day of winter, no less. 

It had been slow going, that autumn, writing the song. The right notes hadn't come to him, no matter how he'd tried to become inspired. He'd dedicated so much time to this song. Of course, he always put thought into his songs, but he was frustrated that this one had taken anywhere near as long as it had, and he was relieved that it was done.

He stepped off of the mound of snow and, with one last look towards the letterbox, began to walk.

He'd placed the letter he'd written for the Moomins gently atop the other letters stacked at the bottom of the box. He'd written _Snufkin_ on the front as neatly as he could, but in the few seconds that the letter was exposed to the winter air, snowflakes had blurred the writing horribly. He hoped that it would be legible when it dried.

The cold winter air stung his cheeks and his hands as he went. Part of him regretted not leaving sooner, but he knew he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter. It felt wrong to leave without completing his song, just like it felt wrong to return to the valley without a new one. He raised his hands to his mouth and blew hot air onto his knuckles, and then once again lifted his instrument to his mouth.

The first few notes reminded him of birdsong. The birds that called the valley 'home' were bold. They were loud and they loved to sing, and they weren't by any means afraid of being bothersome with the noise they made. Snufkin always welcomed their songs when he returned to the valley every spring. The noise was lovely and comforting and he rather enjoyed it. That autumn had been particularly cruel, and the birds had flown south earlier than they usually did. He'd mourned their departure and had wanted very much to follow them to the warmth. The remainder of the autumn, spent without their songs, had been staggeringly quiet and he'd found himself missing the Moomins that much more because of it.

He wasn't worried. No, he was sure that they'd soon return (even if 'soon' meant midway through the next spring). Their travels often met unpredictable obstacles and delays. Their absence was a regular occurrence; the only odd thing about it was that, this time around, how long they'd been missing. Still, it wasn't as if it had been out of nowhere. The note that they'd left taped to the door had been signed by every member of the family, even Little My, and it had instructed Snufkin to help himself to anything he found in the kitchen while they were gone. The note had dispelled most of his concerns, and it continued to do so. All he could do was wait until spring came along.

Snufkin stepped over a particularly large stick, partially hidden in snow, that blocked his path. Subsequently, a strap of his pack caught on one of the branches, and his playing faltered. It was a decent enough place in the song to pause, and so he simply lowered the instrument and began to tug at the strap. He pulled at it until it sprung off of the branch and he staggered to the side. A quick once-over to make sure that nothing had torn (nothing had), and he was on his way once again.

His near-fall had pushed him somewhat into a snowbank and he could feel the moisture of the snow soaking through his shoes. Under the trees, the ground was dusted in a thin layer of snow, but not entirely covered, and he hoped his shoes would begin to dry out as he walked.

The middle part of the song reminded him of the Moomins' house, more specifically the kitchen. He'd taken their offer and occasionally let himself in to eat small meals of jam and bread when the fishing was slow. Some of his song had come to him in those peaceful moments sitting at the table on his own. He'd liked to imagine that they were all still bustling around the house, adding to the ambient noise that the birds provided. Eventually, this daydream had turned into music, and he'd added this to the final product.

He and Moomin had gone on so many adventures together, in these woods. Snufkin always found himself in these nostalgic trances as he made his way out of the valley, and he usually took small detours, veering off the trail to explore and search for traces of their journeys taken together. As he had that thought, and just as he began to consider taking his familiar detours, a particularly strong gust of icy wind hit him. He shivered and decided against looking. That could wait until warmer weather.

He'd taken a jam jar along with him. It was about two-thirds full, and he felt a little guilty about taking it, but he'd been afraid of the jam going to waste. He planned on returning the jar the moment he encountered the Moomins again, and this was how he justified his small act of thievery to himself. The jam tasted how the end of his song sounded. This didn't actually make all that much sense, but it felt true. The end of the song and the jam had the same sweetness, the same slightly bitter tang to them. Both left him feeling just a little bit sad.

He finished the song, then, the last five notes. They'd given him so much trouble, and yet as he played them then, he wasn't quite sure why. They were an obvious fit. He thought that he'd have to play them for Moomin when they next saw each other. He had a feeling his friend would enjoy the end of the song in particular. Moomin always liked the happy tunes, the ones that made him feel just a little bit sad afterwards.

Snufkin liked those, too.

He stopped walking as he placed the instrument back into his pocket, and he turned to face the Moomins' house one final time. It was barely visible behind the bridge and through the trees, but he could just make it out. He quietly bade it (and the Moomins, wherever they were), farewell for the winter.

"Next spring," he mumbled. "See you next spring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! ~~I wrote it all in Comic Sans!~~ I'm kind of excited about this. Haven't written fanfiction in forever and uh,,,,, Yes.
> 
> The story's gonna be pretty gentle in terms of content and word count, and a little slow at the beginning, but it'll get there. ;) I hope you enjoy it!


	2. Empty Jars and Empty Valleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of spring, and a discovery.

The valley in which Snufkin spent his winter was not entirely unlike Moominvalley. This one was also rather green, and it was filled with forests and streams. During his stay, he often absentmindedly wondered whether anybody lived just beyond the hills in the distance, out of sight. He never quite gathered the courage to explore that far; this was the farthest south that he'd ever traveled and he wasn't too keen on going out of his way to introduce himself to the locals just yet. That could wait.

Not too long after he arrived in this new valley, he stumbled upon a small grove of orange trees. These trees were larger than any fruit trees that he was used to, and their branches were weighed down with the sheer number of fruit that they held. He didn't take any for a while, instead deciding to rely on the fishing and the jam that was left in his jar. He always kept one eye on the trees, though, searching for anybody who might come along to claim that they were theirs. Discovering that they had a keeper wouldn't stop him from taking any, of course, but he'd at least know to be cautious. After a few days, though, that part of the valley remained void of anybody but him, and when the fishing finally started to grow scarce, he relented. He strolled to the grove and plucked a couple of oranges from one of the lower-hanging branches of a particularly large tree, and then he climbed it and stretched out on one of its larger branches. The oranges were juicy and refreshing and the leaves shielded his face from the sun, and he began to spend much of his time there, among the trees.

When he wasn't napping on tree branches or eating oranges, he played his autumn song. He sometimes played it from his perch atop the branches, sometimes as he walked between the trees themselves, and sometimes hummed it as he fished. Somehow, he hadn't grown tired of it yet. In the past, he'd have started on a new song mere weeks into his winter adventures, but this year he felt he couldn't bring himself to begin something new without showing the old one to Moomin, first. For his friend, his autumn song would be his spring song as well.

He returned to Moominvalley early that year, for he soon grew bored of dozing among orange trees. He didn't have any desire to explore any further south that year, and he'd already explored everything that he could between this valley and Moominvalley. He felt that there was nothing left to do but return. He told himself all of this as he began to make his way north again, because he refused to believe that he'd cut his travels short just to play a song for somebody. That would be foolish of him, and he didn't like to think of himself as foolish if he could help it.

The air grew crisper and colder with each day as he walked farther and farther north. Winter wasn't over yet, and Snufkin was feeling it. Soon enough, his toes and his fingers began to numb as he went and he'd have to pause to make a fire and warm himself before continuing. The oranges he'd taken with him were feeling the same effects, it seemed. He'd taken one from his pack for breakfast one morning and found it to be frozen completely solid.

The cold finally forced him to stop traveling. He happened upon a village that he was, shockingly, unfamiliar with, and decided it was as good a place as any to wait for warmer weather. The residents, despite being complete strangers, were kind to him and let him be as he put up his tent just outside of the village. They showed him the best places and they offered him fresh water and warm food. Snufkin kept his distance after their first meeting, but he thanked them for their hospitality. He wasn't too keen on getting attached to these people. Their friendliness, though appreciated to some extent, felt uncomfortable to him. He left as soon as the snow began to melt and the sun warmed him enough that he was certain he wouldn't catch his death if he continued on his way. The remainder of his walk would be wet and muddy, but his time in the village had begun to feel suffocating, and so away he went.

He left without a goodbye, but left an orange and a hastily-scribbled note behind on a stump near his campsite as a thank-you. He hoped that someone might find it.

During his last couple of days traveling, he began to use the now-empty jam jar he'd taken from the Moomins as a water container, as his old one had cracked and broken somewhere along the way. The jar made all of the water he found taste distantly like fruit. It was strange, but it was pleasant, and it pushed him to move faster.

He camped half a day's walk from the bridge leading to the Moomins' residence. Despite his plan to return early, his temperature-related break had caused him to fall nearly two weeks behind schedule, enough of a delay that he was now arriving several days _after_ the first day of spring. It was frustrating; he'd been feeling a lack of control for the past few weeks that had yet to leave him, and it was making him antsy. At the very least, he told himself, this gave the Moomins more time to return home before he did. He wondered if he was getting his hopes too high.

He slept restlessly, that final night, and when he awoke at the crack of dawn he wasted no time in packing his things. He was exhausted, but there was no sense in trying to sleep anymore. It was early enough that he felt silly attempting to doze back off. He hadn't been able to get more than an hour or so at a time all night, anyway, and he'd grown irritated trying. He began to walk again.

Two hours passed him by, and finally the scenery grew familiar and friendly and the mumrik felt himself begin to relax. Oh, how Moomin would run to meet him when he heard Snufkin playing his song. He could picture it so perfectly. The Moomins likely would've only returned, at the most, a few days ago, but Moomin would be impatient as ever for his and Snufkin's reunion. He'd run to meet his friend on the bridge and they'd talk for hours. Snufkin would scold Moomin for being away so long, and Moomin would argue right back that Snufkin did _the very same thing_ every single year! Their banter would continue until Moominmamma called Moomin inside for supper, and she'd invite Snufkin along to join them just as she did every year. He thought to himself that, this year, he'd probably accept the offer.

Snufkin pulled his harmonica out of his pocket and sternly told himself to stop thinking such things. There was no guarantee that anything would turn out that way, and it was foolish to hope that it would. He reminded himself as he started to play: clinging too much to people and the memories of them held one back from personal freedom. It gave one unrealistic expectations for the world, to boot, and only set one up for disappointment in the long run.

He halted his thoughts when he felt the ground under his feet grow firmer, and the sound of his footsteps grow loud and hollow. He blinked once and his vision cleared to reveal that he'd reached the bridge. The Moomins' house was right there in front of him. Usually, by now, a light and happy feeling would have begun to swell in Snufkin's chest. Moomin would have heard his song and begun to run down the hill and towards the bridge, excitedly calling after Snufkin. All would have been right with the world.

All would have been right with the world.

Somewhere nearby, a squirrel chattered indignantly. Birds (those bold, loud, familiar birds) sang. The stream gurgled. The grass rustled in the breeze.

Something was off.

Snufkin finished his song, standing there in the middle of the bridge. He played more loudly at the end in hopes of catching _anybody's_ attention. This attempt was very obviously in vain, and he lowered his instrument, suddenly miffed. He turned and silently walked to his old campsite. He put up his tent, stretched his aching limbs, sat, and waited. There was always a chance that they hadn't heard him, hadn't seen him. Somebody might look out the window and spot his tent. The sun dipped lower and lower in the sky until it was nearly hidden behind the trees in the distance before he stood up again.

The bridge creaked under his feet as he started again towards the house. He strode with more urgency and purpose than before, and as soon as the front door came into sight he strained to make it out more clearly. As he grew closer, he noticed that the Moomins' note was still there, taped to the door. He reached up to take it when he reached their front doorstep and it came away from the wood easily. It had barely been hanging on; the snow and the cold had battered it until it had been just about ready to fall off. He held it in his hand for a moment and then stuffed it into his pocket. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it and the door opened easily. He entered the house.

It was evident that nobody had been inside in quite a while. Dust coated every surface and the winter chill remained inside even several days into spring. The atmosphere was unsettling, a stark contrast to its usual warm, welcoming one. It left a deep pit in Snufkin's stomach, and after a long pause, he backed out through the door and shut it tightly.

The Moomins would come back. Rationally, logically, he knew this. Still, the sight of their cold, empty, dusty house was enough to make him nervous. Had they ever been gone _this_ long before? If they had, in the past they would have at least asked someone to come and look after the house if they got the chance to. He stood there looking at the door for several seconds until he remembered the letterbox. Abruptly, his head turned in its direction and he wasted no more time in jogging over to it. Already knowing what he'd see when he did, he opened the box and peered inside.

There was his letter, clear as day atop several others. It was untouched, unread, and unnoticed. Snufkin's heart sank.

Hours later, Snufkin wandered through a neighboring forest of the valley. He'd left all of his things back at his campsite, except for his harmonica which he carried with him now. He hadn't lasted very long in the valley on his own. With the Moomins and their friends to fill it, the valley was a joyful place to be. When one was alone in it, it was unsettling. It felt too empty without them. While he walked, to keep himself company, Snufkin played music. It was an old song he'd heard years and years ago; he couldn't even remember where he'd first heard it, but it had quickly become a favorite of his. He played it when he needed comforting, and now was certainly one of those times. He didn't know why it was he was wandering, besides needing a distraction from the emptiness of the valley, and he didn't know what his goal was in doing so. Obviously, looking for the Moomins wouldn't do him any good. They were nowhere in the valley, he could feel it.

It did feel nice to be doing something, though, even if it was just walking and playing.

He walked for a while longer, and then finally sat down on a downed tree. He lowered the harmonica.

"Oh, Moomintroll," he said to nobody. He sighed, then. It was melancholy and it made the poor mumrik seem quite pitiful indeed, but he didn't mind. There was nobody around to see him. Absentmindedly, he set his harmonica down beside him on the tree. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of drowsiness, but it was no use. He'd go walking again tomorrow, he decided, and think things through properly. Maybe he'd even have the courage to go inside the house and see if that helped clear all of this up, somehow.

The forest darkened completely as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon. Snufkin took that as his cue to begin walking back to his campsite, and so he stood. He began to walk with none of the same urgency as before. Now, his hands were in his pockets and his pace was leisurely. There was no rush, nobody to rush back to.

The harmonica remained on the log, reflecting what light was left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, i’m sorry this chapter took so long! midterms are kicking my butt and i’m exhausted 24/7. this chapter is a smidge longer than the last one; yay! i’m not 100% pleased with it but i’m very happy that i got it done. might edit it a little, later on, but who knows ;)
> 
> anywho— i hope yall enjoyed! i’m having fun w/ this and i’m excited to write more!
> 
> (thank you for your patience while i edited these chapters and got my shit together! should, in theory, be real smooth sailing from this point on.)


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